


Eru's Last Grace

by starlightwalking



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bittersweet, Canonical Character Death, Everyone Loves Elros, Father-Son Relationship, Found Family, Gen, Halls of Mandos, Kidnap Dads, The gift of Men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:01:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24158548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: Elros Tar-Minyatur is dead, but there is one last person he wishes to see before he leaves Arda forever.
Relationships: Elros Tar-Minyatur & Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 26
Kudos: 170





	Eru's Last Grace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JazTheBard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazTheBard/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Give the Children Closure](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23655343) by [JazTheBard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazTheBard/pseuds/JazTheBard). 



> for JazTheBard, because their kidnap dads fic makes me very emo <3 this is very much inspired by their fic "Give the Children Closure" (linked as inspiration) although not quite compliant to that verse.  
> this is a little more fluffy/less complicated take on the kidnap fam situation than I usually take (and it still manages to be angsty lmao) but I need that right now, ok???

"Wait," he said, reaching out to the Doomsman even as the golden light called to him, beckoning him out of Arda.

 _You made your Choice,_ said the Doomsman. _You cannot unmake it._

"I do not wish to," Minyatur said firmly. "I ask only for a moment, before I go."

 _I do not command your soul,_ the Doomsman intoned. _The One has His plans for you, not I._

Minyatur smiled. He had always felt blessed by Eru, honored and guided through his life. He knew the One would grant him this last grace before he embarked upon his final journey.

"Still, I ask of you this last: May I speak with a spirit in your care?" he inquired.

The Doomsman was a being of shadow and stars; he had not the eyes to blink, but Minyatur felt his surprise all the same. _Which spirit?_

"My father," he said simply.

_He lives._

"Not Eärendil."

_The last Kinslayer, the Oathbreaker—he lives also, you know this._

That Minyatur did; Maglor had been with him as he died, clutching a teary-eyed Elrond. Minyatur laughed.

"The other," he said gently. "Maedhros."

The Doomsman pondered this, then shrugged. _I am not in the habit of rewarding him,_ he warned, _but I would not punish you. Yes, I will allow it._

"Thank you." Minyatur nodded to him, and the Doomsman beckoned him forth into his domain.

Mandos was a place of vast darkness, full of indistinct shapes and the hum of a Song that made Minyatur tremble. His spirit, half-elven and half-mortal with a pinch of the essence of that same Song, felt torn in countless directions. But he had Chosen, long ago, and the call of the golden light, beckoning him out of Arda, tugged the strongest. Drifting through the Halls he felt a spark of Elvendom reawaken, and ghostly shades glittered briefly at the edge of his sight. Perhaps, if he squinted, an elvish fëa might take shape...

The Doomsman led him deep into the Halls, shadows folding in on themselves and a chill seeping into Minyatur's wavering form. He could not be trapped here—not with that distant, ever-present pull; not with the Doomsman himself so near—but the low murmurs of anger and despair chilled him.

Minyatur remembered Maedhros as distant but strong, warm yet fractured, loving as much as he despaired. He knew he wanted to see his father again, one last time, but with the tormented souls around him in the depths of Mandos' dungeons, he worried—would he recognize the shade of Maedhros? Would his father be in any state to see him?

 _I would not have agreed were this not possible,_ the Doomsman said, quieting his silent fear. _He will know you. I can grant you this._

With that, he waved his night-dark sleeve, long bony fingers twisting light out of nothing, and a door appeared before him.

 _You may enter,_ said the Doomsman. _But you cannot stay long, I fear._

Minyatur almost laughed—the Doomsman, fearing anything at all, even in a metaphorical sense? But instead he bowed his thanks and reached forward, his golden ghost-fingers pushing open the door.

"Go away," rasped an achingly familiar voice. "I am not in the mood for your ministrations or illusions."

Minyatur had no breath, or it would have caught. His father crouched before him, naked save for a loincloth, his back a mass of red welts and his fiery hair unkempt. Chains restrained his hands, and misery radiated from his spirit, more intense even than Minyatur remembered from the worst of his nightmares in Beleriand. Was the Doosman truly so cruel as to torture the already broken-down Kinslayer?

 _Nay,_ whispered the Vala at the edge of his consciousness. _His torment is his own. He will not accept my comforts, and punishes himself for his wrongdoings, wallowing in his self-hatred instead of working through it. In time, perhaps..._

Minyatur felt a rush of protectiveness, as he often had for his own children. There was no hesitance in his mind as he moved to take his father in his arms. It had been nearly five hundred years since Minyatur had seen his father last, and he would not throw away this opportunity—not when it was unlikely he would ever have such a chance again.

He knelt by Maedhros' side, reaching out incorporeal hands, and cried out, "Atya, it's me! Elros!"

Maedhros whipped his head up, shock visible as plainly as his scars. Minyatur could have wept to see those pale grey eyes again, and his heart broke at the disbelief shining from them, threatening to spill over into tears.

But Maedhros did not fall into Minyatur's open arms with a sob. He stumbled back, face twisting in too-familiar rage. "A cruel trick, and new as well!" he exclaimed, voice ragged. "You are so like my previous captor, Námo; are you certain it is not _you_ who are the Dark Vala?"

"It's _me_ ," Minyatur wept. "Atya, please believe me. I haven't much time—I can feel the pull of the light—"

Maedhros laughed, a chilly, empty sound so unlike the warm chuckle he had on his best days. It hurt Minyatur to see him so _cold_ —Maedhros was a Spirit of Fire as much as his father, and iciness did not become him.

"You are not Elros," Maedhros said. "He is King of Númenor, the Star-lands his _true_ father guided him to. And he chose the mortal path—were he dead, he would not be in Mandos. Certainly he would not be _here_ , in my cell. He is no Kinslayer nor Oathtaker, nor would he wish to be with one so accursed as _me_."

Minyatur's grief turned to anger as the pull grew stronger. He felt his borrowed time running out, and he would not waste another moment of it on his father's self-deprecation.

"Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol Fëanárion," he said in his best state Quenya, letting the lisp sneak past, "I can feel my mortal soul slipping away as I speak, and I will _not_ humor you any longer. It is I! Elros Tar-Minyatur, Eärendilion and Elwingion and Makalaurion and _Nelyafinwion_ , and if you will not see the truth of my fëa as it shines before you then I will be forced to leave Arda forever without—" and here his voice broke— "without the blessing of my father. Please," he added, his voice no more than a whisper, "will you not, at least, embrace me, Atya?"

Maedhros sat in stunned silence, and the glimmering form of Minyatur's spirit wavered. The One had given him this final mercy, but every moment he spent in the elvish Halls was a moment he hid from the Choice and Gift he longed for.

But then, at last, just as Minyatur was about to give up hope—

He felt Maedhros' fëa brush against his own, the same cracked and boiling thing Minyatur had once loved, and he wept.

"It _is_ you," he whispered, and his father's arms wrapped around him.

Minyatur was an old man, with four hundred-odd years of Kingship and generations of descendents already, but he felt like a child again as Maedhros held him, weeping into his grey hair.

"How...?" Maedhros asked through his tears, and in a rush he spilled his tale: his choice, his reign, his marriage and children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren and so forth, his visits with Elrond and Gil-galad and even wandering Maglor, his bodily decline and the hope and peace he drew from the promise of the Gift that awaited him no matter the sorrow of his departure, his last meeting with his birth-parents when Vingilótë briefly touched the shores of Númenórë, how Elrond and Maglor were there with Vardamir and Amandil as he died—and how Eru Ilúvatar, praise be to the One, allowed the Doomsman to grant him this last mercy, to see Maedhros the last of his family one more time.

"I am so proud of you," Maedhros said, voice choked. He had not let go of his son, and as Minyatur spoke it was a wonder to see his fractured fëa put itself back together, the scars healing and the wounds closing and the light of Aman returning to brighten those beautiful grey eyes.

With every passing moment, Minyatur felt the pull of the light beyond Arda, and now he saw it too. The golden glow lit his father's face, warmed Minyatur's soul, and though he cherished Maedhros' embrace he knew it was all that kept him present in Mandos.

"You and Elrond," Maedhros continued, "you were always more than Makalaurë and I deserved. If you two are my greatest legacy, perhaps all our evils were not in vain..."

"Never," said Minyatur, firm as he could be as he felt himself fading away. "I love you, Atya. I am sorry we never said that enough, before. If we had—"

"My choice was my own," Maedhros said, and Minyatur had made his peace with that long ago, but to hear it confirmed—to know his father did not blame him in the slightest—that was a blessing.

"As is mine." Minyatur touched his face, smiling. The three-pronged scar over Maedhros' eye was still present, but it glowed golden in the light that filled his vision, and Minyatur thought he looked beautiful. He could gaze at his father forever, but the pull was firm and insistent now, and he knew it was time. "I am glad I had this moment, Atya. And know that even though my soul departs, my love will always remain with you."

"I—" Maedhros sobbed, he thought, though it was hard to tell as he faded away. But Minyatur knew what he did not say: _I am sorry, it's not fair, I will miss you, I will see you again I don't care what I must do to make it so_ —

But in the end what he spoke was this: "I love you, my son. And for you and your brother, I will be the best I can, here in these Halls and if I am granted it, my next life."

Good—that was good. The anguish and torment on Maedhros' face from before, the reflection of his ruined soul, had softened. If he could repent, relent, recover—when Elrond came, far in the future, to collect their father and return him to life, Maedhros would be ready, then.

Minyatur smiled, and succumbed to the light, letting Eru bless him with the Gift of Men at long last. The final thing he saw before he was freed from the bounds of Arda was the glorious, glowing face of his father, as he must once have been in Aman before the Darkening, the Light of Arda in his countenance and his beauty unblemished, radiating mixed joy and sorrow as only Arda Marred could contain.

But the spirit that was once Elros Tar-Minyatur Nelyafinwion was bound no longer to Arda, Marred or Unmarred, and he saw the Maitimo that had always been: perfect and kind and full of endless love—Eru's love, Eru's grace—and he was glad.

 _Namárië,_ his heart sang, but he knew this was not the end.

**Author's Note:**

> ETA 7/9/20: Fixed a few typos and changed "Maglorion and Maedhrosion" to "Makalaurion and Nelyafinwion" bc the Quenya patronymics really are so much prettier.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please comment if you enjoyed!  
> You can find me on tumblr [@arofili](http://arofili.tumblr.com/).


End file.
